Thursday, 18 March 2010

Star Wars reminds me of a lovable pet. A family friend and companion. However, some way into its promising life it was taken out back and shot in the head for corporate greed. Then its body was beaten out of recognition with sticks, stones and cuddly toy franchises until it liquidified into a puddle of over-commercialised viscous fluid.

Now the rotten and stinking remains of the corpse have been uncovered and put on display again as Lucas announces he is bringing back Star Wars. No, not the marauding Avatar-envying 3D bastard, that was 4 whole minutes ago. It's the animated series for pre-school children.

I'm sure now you understand the convoluted metaphor used earlier and saw that it was good. There are two working titles at present, which are Star Wars: Galactic Heroes and Squishies. The latter seems to be a reference to the soft toy empire made completely without irony by a man convinced that the world needs more milk from a cow that died in the mid-eighties. Maybe also because Lucas is running out of post-colon suffixes for Star Wars.

Photographic evidence suggests that the profits from new Star Wars bastardisations are being stored in Lucas' chin; his 'moolah pouch', if you will.

My personal belief is that in an ironic twist of fate, he's becoming allergic to his own franchises, and will die as his mouth and nose are swallowed up by his own grotesquely swollen throat after 11 long years of slow anaphylaxis.

Monday, 15 March 2010

On the rare occasions I am able to indulge in the satisfying, yet completely nutrition-free delights of morning talk shows, I am often surprised how much they've changed in my absence.

Jeremy Kyle, Giro Overlord is celebrating his 1000th show this week by incorporating a new show feature in order to assist the poor, vulnerable and emotionally stunted to get their lives back on the straight and narrow.

Somehow, the man has convinced two medical professionals to perform anything from blood tests to ultrasounds on guests to determine if they are pregnant, alcoholics or terminally ill. All this on stage in front of a live studio audience. One poor fucker was forced to stare at his self-inflicted liver damage on a monitor, whilst simultaneously being derided and humiliated by a twat perched on a step like some kind of cross between Jesus Christ and David Cameron.

Another girl had to undergo similar treatment in order to test for pregnancy. I can only thank god they decided to go for an (expensive and unnecessary) ultrasound, rather than getting the poor bitch to piss on a stick on national television.

Is this the beginning of the end for our healthcare system? Trading our dignity for essential medical treatment? It's this kind of thing that makes me thank Christ I'm with BUPA.

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Out of sheer morbid curiosity I have spent the last few months searching for that infamous Fox remake of Spaced, going even so far to stalk Edgar Wright on Twitter and persuade the already heartbroken young chap into handing over the link.

This evening purely through chance I was able to witness the damned thing. I thought I was prepared. I knew the concept was untransferrable to a US format as it was. I knew the performances would be pallid in comparison. I knew it was not for me. Now I know how those victims in The Ring felt. Frightened, confused and compelled, all to their demise.

It shakes me to my core that even a man who assigns himself a three-letter name with no vowels can fuck something up quite so badly. McG? McGimp. McGreatBigWankshaft. The list goes on. I take a number of issues with this whole thing. This will be a long article. Those who know me, know why.

Firstly, I am confused about this human's ability to call himself a fan. A man who effectively stole a format and the publicity of the creative team in order to further his piracy. Worse still, in an act of misogyny not out of place in... the Fox Network, denied all knowledge of Jessica Hyne (née Stevenson)'s creative influence.

On to the piece, I realise I am defending the genre with terminal intensity, however bastardisation would be an innappropriately mild way of describing this. Well, we have to trust this man's creative interpretation. He was the brains behind Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle after all. However, I am genuinely impressed with this gentleman's ability to strip away all the good bits and stick with... the dialogue. Snappy jump-cuts and ethereal imagery was well-replaced with a tram disappearing for no particular reason in a Friends-esque interlude, complete with a 4-second musical sting from the Rembrandts or some other 'commercially indie' bullshit. Turning Mike into a real-life Homer Simpson simplified to a love of doughnuts and guns (in that order) I'm sure was an effective way to get the fat jokes across to the salivating drones.

I can see where there would be difficulty conveying a platonic friendship between members of the opposite gender without marriage and children ensuing, so it has been duly simplified to make whoever the hell these people are hate each other but inexplicably live together. I guess it ticks enough boxes for the Christian Mothers association to not find fault at least. This remake is one of the most redundant examples of cross-Atlantic plagiarism I've seen since birth. The 'odd couple' pretence has been around for as long as The Odd Couple. The bare bones plot was not the point of the original, it only anchored the opportunity to push the boundaries of television. Now, like everything else is and will be, it has been reduced to stereotypical storylines, transparent and unlovable characters, and meaningless half-hour voids to fill our sorry lives.

Welcome, dear friends, to the world Fox and McG would have us live in. And worse still, this is what they describe as 'edgy'.

Support the independent arts or invest in a shotgun. You're going to need one of them.